From Hell He CameAnd He Looked Good (Like Really Good)
by HannibalSolo
Summary: This is my first reader insert fic, and I chose Crowley x Reader because Crowley is a personal favorite of mine and has been on my mind for some time for something of this nature. It's a humorous little story and a one-shot. It turned out a bit longer than I meant it to, but what can I say? I hope characters are accurate and the like. It's T for language and a bit of mild snogging.


Crowley x Reader Insert

From Hell He Came…And He Looked Good (Like Really Good)

You sat on the motel bed attempting to discern if that oddly colored spot was a stain or part of the comforter pattern. After considering the possibilities, you opted for not thinking about it too much instead, feeling slightly unsettled and more than a bit grossed out. "Hey, Sam—Dean! Uh, are you guys sure you don't want this bed? I mean it's way cushier than that one and it's got way more…character, ehem." Sam chuckled and Dean looked at you deadpan, saying, "Oh, we're sure." You sighed and made a face at Dean and then at the mystery stain, whimpering a bit. You'd only run with the Winchester brothers a short while and were still experiencing all the myriad benefits of being "the new kid." This basically meant you got all the crap jobs and crap beds…Well, comparatively crap beds. Motels weren't generally known for their cleanliness.

Your (h/c) hair was pulled back in a Lara Croft braid, well, as best as you could manage, anyhow. The table near the door was littered with research books, newspapers, and in the midst of the chaos was Sam's laptop, which, frankly, had seen better days, especially since you'd dropped an encyclopedia on it the other week when Sam was out. Ever since, Sam had been puzzled as to why a couple of the keys were unresponsive, primarily the "v" and "w" and occasionally the "tab" button. He'd asked you about it, but you bit your lip and shrugged innocently, simply saying, "Wow, that's so weird. But it is a pretty old laptop, y'know. It sucks, man, but yeah…" Then you tittered awkwardly, though Sam didn't seem to find this suspicious, which made you severely question his hunter senses. But who were you to say anything, since it _was_ to your advantage?

Dean pulled a beer from the mini-fridge, then looked at you. "Hey, (y/n), you want one?" You glanced up from the stain. "You kidding? Hell, yeah!" you said, a sucker for a good beer. A sucker for good alcohol generally, but especially dat beer. Heiniken was ass and Rolling Rock was okay, but Dean usually got Samuel Adams or Blue Moon anyway, so that was not an issue. In fact, when Sam once asked if Dean could pick up some Heiniken on his way out, you and Dean had a great bonding moment ripping into Sam over his taste in beer. Quite touching really. Just now, Dean feigned like he was going to chuck the beer at your head, but you knew him better by now and didn't flinch (well, didn't flinch as much), extending your arm out as Dean met you halfway. The cold bottle settled nicely in your hand. You rested the tip of the cap on the edge of the headboard and whacked down on it with your fist, smiling as it popped off with a satisfying click and _thop_!

Alright, so how you came to be where you were at present. Well, let's start from the start. You were born (better than being hatched or sprung from the ground or brought into being spontaneously I suppose), and you did this whole birth thing in a little state called Pennsylvania. Specifically, in a little mining town in Pennsylvania. Blah, blah, blah, filler, detail, blah. You do you boo. Anyhoo! You had a very loving mother, but poor, very poor. Absent father, and no other siblings. The Winchesters came into your little bumfucknowhere neck of the woods to hunt a frisky, gay vampire by the name of Gascard, who'd proceeded to seduce your prom date before promptly eating him. It's not the way you'd wanted to find out that your year-long crush could never be into you the way you were into him, but you knew deep down the dream was futile. Still, the damn vamp ate your date. You were pissed. You thought this kind of crap only happened in Buffy The Vampire Slayer, and you were so not feeling a blood-thirsty monster making himself at home in your town. So, you went Blade on this Gascard douche (sans the being half-vampire yourself bit), and as can be expected you almost were eaten yourself. No, you were not rescued by Sam and Dean like a damsel in distress. Yes, they showed up, after your unsuccessful attempt at staking Gascard whose fangs were primed to rip your throat out, but you'd used the distraction caused by Sam and Dean to pick up a big-ass shard of glass from the dusty floor of the abandoned house G-man had shacked up in. (Warning: ick factor) You picked up that big-ass piece of glass and shoved it into G-man's neck, Dean rushing over and …finishing the job. Very blech. Much blood.

After explaining some things to you, which required much persuasion on your part, Dean and Sam took you home, planning on leaving you there and never seeing you again. However, your mother came rushing out and, seeing the blood, she paled and said, "No! Not more hunters—(y/n), how did you find out?" To which you responded, "Dafuq?" To which Dean and Sam added, "Double dafuq?" I'll let you fill in any blanks from there, 'cause I'm damn tired from this story-telling. Phew!

Alright, back to now, you were taking a good swig from the Blue Moon resting so perfectly in your little hand. No, your hands weren't dainty, but they were kind of cute. Look at you with your cute hands! They won't be seducing anyone anytime soon, but making someone smile affectionately at their adorableness is definitely in the cards. Oooo la la! The Blue Moon slid down your throat refreshingly and smoothly, and you were about to put your headphones in to blast what you considered good music but were nervous to play in front of Sam or Dean, when Sam and Dean both started to say something, stopped, started again, and stopped. "You first, Dean," said Sam, gesturing to his brother.

Dean gladly began, "Well, I'm tired as hell from this job we just finished, so I'm going out to a bar. Maybe I'll get drunk enough to do some dancing. You guys in?(y/n), you can just bring your fake I.D." Sam furrowed his brow slightly, "Well, I—I actually was meeting up with Sarah Jones for…dinner," he said, blushing slightly. Dean gave him an "Oh, really? And you were telling us about this…when?" face, but let it go. Sarah Jones was a woman you'd met while working the case you'd just closed. She was a witness to the first attack perpetrated by the shapeshifter you and Sam had tracked and Dean had ultimately ganked. She thought Sam was an F.B.I. agent named Sammy Hagar. You laughed just thinking about it.

Dean looked back to you. "So, what about you? You down for some Drunk Dancing Dean?" You quirk an eyebrow and think about it for a minute. It might be nice to have the room to yourself. You could do some girly stuff like take an hour or more long shower or bath. You could do that two dollar face mask you'd bought at Wal-Mart the other day. You could blast your eclectic music out loud and air guitar on Sam and Dean's less icky bed. The possibilities stretched before you, tantalizing. "Well, actually, I'm kind of burnt-out after that shapeshifter business. I think I'll hang back here. Besides, Dean, knowing you, you'll meet some half-brained floozy, and you don't want to look like you're out already with another chick or like you're chilling with your sister. 'Cause that'd totally kill your chances. Just, please, don't bring said hypothetical floozy back here. Please don't," you say. Dean grins boyishly and nods. "Alright, I'm out then. See you guys later. Oh, and, Sammy, have fun on your date!" Dean gives Sam an obnoxious wink before bolting out the door. Sam shakes his head affectionately. Then Sam gets up, straightening himself and getting prepared, before he too starts for the door. "(y/n), I'll see you later. Stay out of trouble." You wave him off and say, "Yeah, yeah, see you _tomorrow_, lover boy!" He blushes beet red and dashes out.

You are alone at last and you feel like God. Ruler of your (granted somewhat grungy) domain and you are ready to go crazy. You start with the music blasting, grabbing Sam's laptop and opening your Amazon Music Cloud account. The first song to play on your shuffle is "Teenage Dirtbag" by Wheatus and you are in the zone. You go to the bathroom, carrying the laptop with you, so you can sing along as you shower of course, and you slip out of your grimy hunter clothes, glancing at yourself briefly in the mirror before hopping in the shower and switching the faucet all the way over, as hot as it'll go. Indulgence is a beautiful thing, and it makes you feel like maybe you're a beautiful thing too. The hot water pours over your back and through your (h/c) hair. You've just rinsed the generic, but pleasantly scented shampoo out of your hair, when a gravelly but familiar voice says, "(y/n)?" You, of course, proceed to scream, before angrily growling, "Cas! Cas, what have I told you about sneaking up on people? Particularly people who are not fully clothed?"

You poke your head around the shower curtain to show the angel just how angry and irate you are, but his dopey little "I'm an angel who doesn't know any better, love me!" face makes it difficult to maintain your current level of irritation. "Cas, why are you here right now?" You ask this after he takes too long to respond to your initial query. "Well, I need to speak with the Winchesters and you about…angel stuff," he says tentatively. "It isn't exactly urgent angel stuff…" You almost laugh at his awkwardness because he just figured out that behind that curtain you _really are_ butt naked. "Cas, Dean is at the local bar in town called 'Red Beard's Brew,' and I'm sure he would love to talk angel stuff with you." Say no more, adorably-awkward-pants has flown the coop. You chuckle and return to your self-pampering, while Joe Strummer sings, "Rock The Casbah." The Clash was one of your favorites (you really get no choice in your musical taste in this insert because I will not give it to you, I've gone mad with power I tell you, MAD! MUAWHAHAHA!) along with Social Distortion, Radiohead, and Morrissey. As you continued to shower, you actually got to shave your legs (not just cheating by only doing your calves, but your full legs) and this was a particular relief to you, as hunting didn't always leave time for the finer things in life. Like having your legs shaved.

After you finished with that, you stepped out and moisturized and put on yoga tights, a tank top, a cardigan, and (drum roll please) some very, very fuzzy socks. Then you tied your hair back and did your little face mask. Finally, you finished that and realized you had nothing to do. Oops, poor planning, luckily there was a Redbox right outside your room. This was one of the fancier shitty motels you and the brothers had crashed at. You go out to the Redbox and decide to rent _Prometheus_ because you liked sci-fi and let's face it a blond Michael Fassbender was something you'd never pass up on even if you had no idea how long he'd actually be in the movie. Why bother renting anything with aforementioned actor when you know it'll just remind you how alone you are? Because you're a sad, masochistic bastard. But aren't we all to a degree? Oh, Michael Fassbender…

You're about to pop the dvd into Sam's laptop as you curl onto what was supposed to be Sam and Dean's bed, but, hey, they are not coming back tonight if we're being honest, when another disembodied voice interrupts you. But this voice is not familiar. No, you'd remember having heard this voice before, the way you'd always remember how Michael Fassbender looked in his spandex suit in X-Men First Class. "Well, hello, hello! And who exactly are you, love? I came looking for the Winchesters, but I'd much rather talk to you…" That thick Cockney accent slithered through your ears like fine scotch, almost giving you good shivers even as you were experiencing bad shrieks and spasming. You were freaking the fuck out, and I can't blame you. But you recovered your faculties in record time, when you took in the well-dressed, ruggedly handsome man standing before you and watching your reaction with interested and amused, rich brown eyes. Your own (e/c) eyes were wide and alert, your eyebrows raised as you stood on the opposite side of the room near to the door. "Name's Crowley, King of Hell, and you are?" He prompted again, waiting for you to engage. "I'm (y/n), hunter, and why am I not killing you?" You say bravely, but secretly trying not to piss yourself. "Well, for starters, because you're a smart girl, I would guess. Also, I assume the Winchesters would be devastated if I happened to kill you, which I would if you tried to kill me, and that wouldn't be too good for business at this juncture." The way he punctuates, "at this juncture" is more than a bit disturbing.

He smiles seductively at you, and you start to feel uncomfortable, quickly bringing him back to the matter at hand. "What do you want then?" you ask. "Ah, you see, (y/n), I'd much rather speak to the idiots face to face about it, but it involves demony things, business debts, and boring old rot. Nothing too pressing I suppose, though I'd rather it didn't wait—Damn, Winchesters! Never around when you actually want them. So, I suppose I'll be going now—Wait a tick, is that…Radiohead? Are you a Radiohead fan? Now, you're even more intriguing and beguiling," he says playfully, advancing slowly. You hadn't paused your music yet, as Crowley had interrupted before you'd gotten that far. You nervously admitted that you were indeed a fan, moving to the laptop to hold it to your chest like a shield. "Well, I suppose I'll be going now. Unless, there's a reason I should stay." He had caught you checking him out almost blatantly just now (you were never very smooth about anything, try as you might, and you'd begun to think about how boring your night would be when Crowley was gone, and both the brothers would probably be with someone, while you were alone, very alone, and potentially horny and alone). You looked almost wistfully at his very bitable lower lip (then you thought to yourself 'Bad self! He's the King of Hell!' but hey that doesn't make him any less sexy, yum, yum). "Well, unless, you're interested in watching a movie with aliens and Michael Fassbender in it with me, I couldn't think of reason," you say attempting to both be coy and maintain some dignity.

Crowley laughs, "I made a deal with Michael Fassbender once." Your jaw drops, and you're in such a state of disbelief that it doesn't bother you that Crowley walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, now close enough for you to smell his delicious cologne (smell is important, smell is clutch, and he smells delectable). "No fucking way! You're totally shitting me aren't you?" In your excitement you forgot your filter. Crowley seems all the more amused by this development. "Oh my, but you are a potty mouth. But I shit you not. He made a deal to have the best ass in the world and voila!" Now, you're really incredulous. So much so that you sit on the bed next to Crowley and pull up google on the laptop. You google butt shots of Michael Fassbender, and point to them, even as you try not to drool all over the keyboard. "You mean to tell me that, that beautiful, delightful, perky, wonderful thing is a—a lie?" Crowley scoots closer and leans over your shoulder to take a gander. "I'm afraid so, love. A lie made by yours truly." You frowned and then smirked, "So, you are the King of Hell _and_ the King of Asses." As you make this snarky remark you turn to him and realize just how close your faces really are to one another. Oh, oops. He smells really good and looks really good and he made Michael Fassbender's ass. You want to kiss him for that reason alone, but so many other reasons come to mind as well. He's looking into your (e/c) eyes with his own smoldering ones and you feel conflicted, but mostly horny. Yeah, sorry, but it's the truth. He deftly closes the laptop and tosses it on the next bed over without once breaking eye contact with you and inches in, pressing his lips against yours. Still in a state of indecision you take a moment to recognize your situation before saying to yourself 'Fuck it!' You press back, surprising Crowley. You slide your hands up his chest, looping them around his neck, as he rests his on your waist and pulls you closer.

The kiss intensifies as you really start to feel just how alone you've been. You start to break off into smaller kisses like little sexy blitz attack kisses. One of your hands slides through Crowley's hair and you break away from his lips momentarily to kiss his neck, finding a sensitive spot in the crook of his neck and giving it special attention, which surprises Crowley again (you can tell because his breathing had become irregular now). His hands begin to push up and grip the edges of your tank top and tease around the edges of your pants. Then you bite him on the neck and Crowley makes a small growling sound, which is a good thing in this instance. He pulls away briefly to readjust before kissing you again this time using his tongue and very well I might add. You've never been kissed like this before, in fact, your first boyfriend kissed like Jabba the Hutt, and you hadn't kissed many people since. You weren't sure where this was heading exactly but you were young and in the moment. Crowley pushed you down on the bed and straddled you, not violently but skillfully, then it was his turn to kiss your neck and you let out an ecstatic giggle when he did because it felt good but also kind of tickled.

Crowley pulls up from his work and looks at you bewildered. "What's so funny?" You look at him with a youthful and sincere smile and say, "Nothing, it just tickles a little when you do that." He quirks his head to the side and smirks. "How many blokes you been with, love?" You are struck by his question, a little indignant, but also embarrassed. You blush deeply because the answer is zero. You fumble for the words to explain this to the King of Hell. "Well, I mean, actually…" You look off to the side unsure how to proceed. His face is priceless. "Oh! You're—You're a virgin! Oh, well, love, we all were once and then never again!" He chuckles, trying to shrug it off. But for some reason he seems disquiet now.

Just then Castiel flutters back into the room. "(y/n), I just spoke—Crowley! What are you doing to her?" You slap your forehead, and Crowley hops off of you before saying, "Oh nothing bad. Maybe a bit naughty, playing smoochy with a sweet, pretty virgin, but you can hardly blame me. I mean come on, angel boy, look at her! Besides, the Winchesters were indisposed to speak with me, so this lovely creature lent me her ear…to nibble." Right at the end of this speech Dean burst in drunk and happy (the latter for about two more seconds). "Ah, come on, what the hell!" Dean's face falls when he sees Crowley and Castiel and you lying on the bed. "(y/n), what's going on here?" Castiel steps forward and says, "When I arrived Crowley was on top of (y/n) and says he was playing smoochy. I don't know what this is, but it didn't look…savory." Dean turns red, like scary red and is about to murderlize Crowley's demon ass, when you jump between him and said demon ass, which you were still thinking of spanking. Yes, you're still horny, though you are equally confused now. "It wasn't like _that_! I mean he came looking for you guys and then we were talking and then we weren't talking…"

You explain everything so eloquently, but this doesn't seem to soothe Dean who is now mad at _both_ you and Crowley. "You mean you made out with a demon because you wanted to! Ah, this is great! Just perfect! Now, I'm going to have to lock you in a warded cell and never let you out! Is that Radiohead playing—Ah, dammit all!" Dean rants for a couple more minutes, while you try not to exchange conspiratorially mischievous glances with Crowley and Castiel looks around confused, but concerned for you and for Dean's emotional state. "Well, I'd love to stay, but I am the King of Hell. Things to do, people to see, people to torture slowly and then brutally murder. But I'll be seeing you all again soon. Especially you, love," Crowley says, giving you bedroom eyes before pulling you into a steamy kiss in which he somehow manages to grab your ass with finesse and class as he disappears into thin air, leaving you in the awkward position of being turned on and ashamed. Also, there's the whole matter of calming Dean down, explaining everything to Castiel, and having to do the same thing all over again with Sam. But boy could the King of Hell kiss. And grab ass, let's not forget how well he grabbed ass. And made ass, I mean look at Michael Fassbender's booty and tell me Crowley didn't do a great job.


End file.
